


tell me once darling (what are you so afraid of?)

by easydoesit



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Romance, oh they are in love they are very in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 04:09:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19221292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easydoesit/pseuds/easydoesit
Summary: The problem with locking up all of his love inside and never letting it escape is that it accumulates, and when it’s finally set free it’s kerosene.





	tell me once darling (what are you so afraid of?)

**Author's Note:**

> oh to be in love and know that you are also loved and also that everything is going to turn out ok...

The bus is dark, and no one is looking at them - a minor miracle. It’s not hard to spin, and Crowley is sure that Aziraphale appreciates it: at the bus stop, his face had done the distressing wobble Crowley associates with 1967.

 

( _You go to fast for me, Crowley_ , he had said, and Crowley had locked himself in his flat for a fortnight.)

 

It’s unlike the last bus they were on together, because this time they are sitting together - they’re allowing themselves to be associated. It’s not like it matters anymore, considering that anyone who could really do anything about it had noticed at the airbase. There’s not a point in trying to hide it anymore.

 

They’re sitting together, but it still feels like there’s a line.

 

There has always been a line, since the beginning. As long as they have known each other. It’s never been discussed out loud, but it’s there: they are associates, acquaintances, friends, but that’s it. 

 

Therein lies the problem. Crowley has loved him since the garden. It’s hard not to love the only angel that doesn’t seem perfectly angelic. It’s fine - he can deal with it (and has for centuries) but colonialism is classified under the sins column, and staking a claim on someone else’s heart certainly qualifies. That’s good for him, certainly; colouring his soul a little bit darker with damnation, drawing more clearly the lines of his allegiance and saving him the weight of scrutiny for another day. 

 

It’s not good for Aziraphale. And Crowley doesn’t really want to be strongly associated with Hell anymore, anyway. 

 

( _It’s not really a claim though, is it?_ he thinks wildly. _That’s a shoddy metaphor. It’s more like asking to share. And that’s not sinful at all._ )

 

So damn the line. Damn whatever Heaven or Hell thinks. They’ve basically told them all to fuck off anyway, so what’s the point? This is the line, and he is crossing it. They’re already heading to his flat. The world has tried its best to end and then hasn’t, thanks to the actions of an 11 year old boy (antichrist) and his friends. If there was a time for the line to be crossed, this would be it.

 

It’s not hard to slip his hand off of his own knee and across the minimal space in between them. He’s still careful, though, doesn’t want to make any sudden movements that would spook Aziraphale.

 

(Or spook himself. He’s still teetering on the edge of his decision that nothing is going to hold him back anymore.)

 

It’s not hard to link their pinkies together, then the rest of their fingers. He’s not trying to hold on so tight, but Crowley is holding on like it’s a lifeline.

 

(Maybe it is.)

 

Aziraphale does not look at him, but holds on just as tightly, and Crowley pulls their hands back onto his own thigh. Outside the window, the trees rush by: it’s late, and their shapes are hardly visible, but they are there nonetheless.

 

“You know-“ Aziraphale says, quiet, like if he says the words too loudly they’ll get lost among the shadowy figures of the trees. “You know that I love you, right?”

 

Crowley knows. He isn’t built to love anything, not anymore, and yet deep down there is an all consuming love that threatens to burn away everything else. He’s not sure angels are built to love like this, the messy kind that lingers in the vicinity of his solar plexus and bides its time. 

 

One angel does anyway.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Aziraphale takes back their linked hands to press a kiss to Crowley’s knuckles, then another. He steals glances at him while he does, and Crowley studies his profile and tries not to explode.

 

(The problem with locking up all of his love inside and never letting it escape is that it accumulates, and when it’s finally set free it’s kerosene.)

 

“I have loved you for millennia.” Crowley croaks out, and he can’t look the angel in the eye. Instead, he drops his gaze down to study his hand left behind on his leg. “Since the garden.”

 

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale says, and brings his hand to his lips one last time.

 

The only sounds around them are road noise and the quiet breathing of the other passengers, of which there are very few. That’s probably for the best: less disgruntled people when their Oxford-bound bus stops in London. 

 

They’re going to be exhausted, too. He’ll get Aziraphale to miracle it away for them to apologize. His exhaustion, however, can’t be miracled away. He shouldn’t be tired, but it’s been a long day, and it’s exhausting, being known. Even when it turns out well. Crowley slumps down onto Aziraphale’s shoulder and closes his eyes in an attempt to let the rest of the night slip away.

 

It doesn’t work, but it’s nice to have something solid to keep him grounded.

 

—

 

The night sky beams with stars when they arrive in London. That’s a miracle in its own right, considering the usual atmospheric conditions. It’s bright enough that Crowley can pick the path back to his flat without the use of street lamps, which he extinguishes as they walk along. It’s not demonic - a mild nuisance if anything - but it settles his nerves.

 

(Aziraphale tuts disapprovingly but fondly, and does not let go of his hand.)

 

It’s not a long walk, stairs and whatnot, and before long they’re standing in front of his door. Aziraphale is still holding his hand and they’ve crossed the line and it feels good.

 

He’d said damn the line, but it’s still mildly terrifying to do things you’ve be told not to. Also thrilling. 

 

It’s also so simple. This is how it’s going to be, for the rest of their time on this planet. Until the next big thing. After the next big thing, whether it ends well or not.

 

With his free hand, the angel reaches for the door handle.

 

“Wait.”

 

“Oh, keys. Yes. Will you-“

 

Crowley hauls him in for a kiss, a real one, one that tastes like longing and relief. He’s been waiting long enough - six thousand years. He’s not going to wait any longer.

 

Aziraphale leans into him, balanced precariously on his toes. He’s warm to the touch, love swirling underneath his skin. It burns, mildly. Not enough to let go.

 

This is how it’s supposed to be, how it should have been all this time: one of Aziraphale’s hands twined into the front of his jacket, the other still in his own. Crowley kisses him long and slow, like he’s got all the time in the world. And he does, now. They’re on their own side. They don’t answer to anyone they don’t want to.

 

Aziraphale leans into him farther, and they stumble back into the door. Crowley miracles it open.

 

Tonight, and for the rest of time, no one else matters.

 

 


End file.
